


Valse Brilliante

by ticklishivories



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Prince/Servant AU, scandalous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:49:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticklishivories/pseuds/ticklishivories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His life is a grand masquerade that he'll always be dancing to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Adrien is the Agreste Kingdom's most highly regarded, admired pretty boy. Everyone loves him, except himself. The romance is a critical plot point too don't forget about that. 
> 
> by the way the title means brilliant waltz. there are some piano pieces in the fic, i highly suggest you listen when they pop up!

 

There is a castle by the sea built of pearl and marble like the shells on its shore. Golden lions, more than the eye can count, are carved into every crevice and made magnificent statues guarding the golden gates. The cliff on which it’s perched towers above the sandy beach with its spires and pillars. In the highest tower, tall enough to brush the heavens, is a balcony.

Adrien stares at the sea for hours. He leans on the white marble banister. The air is thin, cold and brittle on his pale skin. Clouds darken the sky. He gazes a thousand feet below at the sea. His castle’s reflection stares back. It glistens in the water, no more real than its counterpart.

Adrien scoffs at his romanticisms and heads back into his room.

A book lies open at the foot of his bed; _Poetry: The Importance of Allegory and Analogy_ , and an apple with a piece bitten out rests on the spine. He thumbs the royal blue silk of his sheets, the golden tassels trimming the seams.

It’s been a long day. He grimaces remembering his tight smile he’d carried through its entirety, and his shoulders ache from stiffness. One meeting after another, all variations of the same thing; posture, primness, politeness, and a three-hour long lecture on botany. He manages. His reading at the end of the day is always sweetened by the hard work he’s done.

The weather makes his body heavy as though his feet are lead. The sky’s been threatening rain for days. He wishes to crawl into bed, formal wear and all, and sleep for days– banish anything from waking him until he emerges like a bear from its cave on his own.

He already has a knee leveraged on the bed when he hears a knock.

“Your Highness, His Majesty the King wishes to speak with you.”

Nathalie, his stewardess, will not be lenient. He groans and slams his face into the sheets. Just one moment of reprieve. Just _one._ That’s all he asks.

“I’ll be a moment.”

.

Adrien is led through the main hall, a silent and unsettling room with a high ceiling and ornate chairs that do not match in style. But he thinks the nature of Rococo architecture– the graceful, almost jocular asymmetry, the gold tapestries and stuccowork– suits the teasing and elusive banter that circulates in these sorts of ‘high society’ parties. Light flickers in the candles hanging from the three chandeliers, throwing glares across the enormous mirrors lining the walls and the porcelain busts of the King on each table. There is so… _much_ that it overwhelms Adrien, but his father was never one to keep out of trends.

In a week the chairs and statuettes will be swept away to clear the floor, and more money and ostentatious titles will be crammed into the room than on his eighteenth birthday. Gowns and heels will dance across the tile in celebration of the anniversary of his father’s crowning. He’s looking forward to how the castle will transform from an empty, echoing shell to a stifling hovel of debauchery and bitter perfumes.

His shoes click across the polished floor. They veer to the right and pass through the archway that leads to the library. To his surprise the stewardess does not take him through the library but down the corridor, to the kitchen.

The kitchen never felt the same as the rest of the castle. He has fond memories of playing with the servants’ children in this room, stealing food hot off the pan and sneaking into the castle garden. Warmth emanates from the stove and bread rises inside. Remnants of flour and sugar particles coat the counters. His stomach growls. Had he eaten? He can’t recall.

A man three times as wide and twice as tall as Adrien hunches over the counter kneading dough. Next to him a woman scribbles down notes, counting off measurements and ingredients like orders for battle. A girl, nearly inconspicuous as she stands in the corner, holds a tray of ready-made croissants in her gloved hands. Adrien knows all the servants; they must be new.

But he does not spot his father. He turns to Nathalie. “Is the King not here?”

The man, woman and girl pause what they are doing and bow generously; the girl with the croissants curtseys awkwardly. Her eye contact is startling. Big and wide and bluer than the sea. He’s not used to that from servants, direct eye contact. Adrien thinks she looks both dangerously curious and ready to tilt over.

The older woman smiles politely at him. “Ah, no, Your Highness, but we can explain what it is His Majesty wanted.”

He should have known; the King himself speaking to servants is unheard of. Adrien smiles back. The tired bruises under his eyes lift. “Go on.”

The woman bows her head again. “It is the King’s wish that you choose the third course for the ceremony next week. He requests that you limit your choices to plates that do not include meat, as our guests could have cultural conflicts with those foods.”

He raises a brow. “I am in charge of dessert?”

The man nods. “We are masters of breads and sweets.”

The woman begins listing off. “Yes, we make a variety of delicious pastries, Your Highness. There is mousse, macaroons, pralines, flaugnarde,” she sighs dreamily, “we make a wonderful flaugnarde Your Highness…”

Adrien dazes. His stomach growls and he purses his lips to quell the hunger. The smells of the bread weren’t helping.

The woman tapers off. “Pardon me, is something the matter?”

Adrien shakes his head. But the sound of his stomach is loud and he flushes, clutching it tightly. He clears his throat. “Beg your pardon. You were saying?”

But the younger girl steps forward before anyone else can speak. She carefully holds the tray in front of her and pushes past the other two. Adrien realizes the remarkable similarity between her and the man and woman. They must be her parents.

She lifts the tray up. Her cheeks are pink, her lashes fluttering quick and soft. “Would you like one, Your Highness?”

He eyes the croissants ravenously. If he stares hard enough he can see the heat still rising off them. He licks his lips.

“Please.”

She smiles. “Of course.”

He reaches out and takes one. It doesn’t matter that it’s hot enough to burn. He sinks in his teeth without hesitation and closes his eyes.

The warm bread crisps and flakes into his mouth. Delicate on the outside, soft, buttery honeycomb layers on the inside. Crumbs stick to his lips and carelessly fall to the floor. He breathes out a sigh of delight and hums.

“This is extraordinary.”

The girl’s eyes brighten. Adrien swallows and opens his eyes to smile. He meets her gaze.

“Thank you.”

A dark flush blossoms on her cheeks and spreads across the freckles on her nose. She bows hurriedly and retreats behind her parents.

He’ll have a day to think of what he’d like for next week. Adrien barely listens to Nathalie speak to the woman and the cook as he finishes his croissant. It takes all of his willpower not to lick the crumbs off his fingers. His hands are sticky, and they hover awkwardly at his sides. As the evening approaches and the work is covered, he bids them goodnight and smiles again at the girl. She fidgets with the tray and smiles back.

The moment he is alone, in the fading orange light of his room as the sun sets over the ocean, he licks the tips of his fingers clean. He buries his nose in his studies until the light is gone and the apple he’d been chewing loses its taste. It isn’t sweet enough. Adrien falls onto his pillows and wishes he had another croissant.

Maybe…he could sneak into the kitchen tomorrow before breakfast.

The door to the balcony remains open. Adrien falls asleep to the crash of waves against the cliff and the winds of a storm billowing through the curtains.

.

There’s a small relief in the weather the next morning. The sun is bright but the headiness of rain hangs in the air. Adrien takes the shortcut through the garden to the kitchen. It’s his favorite path to walk; so close to the ocean, the waves can be heard rushing over sand and the seagulls’ call drifts over the cliff. The rose bushes shiver. It’s a bit windy today.

His boots sink into the grass. He passes the absurdly intricate maze that leads to the greenhouse, and strolls along the corridor that adjoins the servants’ quarters to the rest of the castle.

A girl flies by his vision. She hustles so fast Adrien nearly misses her, but when he turns back he spots her hurrying down the hall while hauling an enormous sack of flour in her arms. She’s heading to the kitchen.

“Hello?” Adrien calls out.

The girl stops mid-step and pivots towards his voice. When she sees him, his cream colored tunic and navy blue, wrinkle free trousers, her eyes fly open and she nearly drops the sack. He rushes over to help.

“Your Highness-!”

“I can carry this, don’t worry.” He lifts the sack and supports it with her, smiling softly. “We seem to have the same destination.”

She blushes, the red stark on her porcelain skin. Adrien remembers her from yesterday. He takes the flour into his arms and walks beside her.

She’s not speaking. Her gaze remains stuck to the ground. Adrien speaks before the silence thickens. “What’s your name?”

She looks up. Her eye contact is piercing, something that catches him off guard again.

“Marinette.”

“You’re new, I presume?”

She nods. “The previous cook retired. He was my Uncle.”

“Really? He and I were good friends.”

Marinette beams. They walk in step, taking their time as they pass through the gardens. A butterfly flutters passed.

“My Uncle loved his job here. But he’s grown old. He needs his rest, despite his own protests.” She chuckles, clear as a bell, and Adrien’s attention is drawn. “He used to come home and tell me wonderful things about the people here.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” He grins to himself. “When I was young, too young for the nurse to control, I would spend my time in the kitchen and bribe the chef for treats.” He looks at Marinette. “Your Uncle would always give in. He’d take me out to the garden and let me have the ripest strawberries. And then he’d make them into a tart. Having them fresh out of the oven is incomparable to having them after supper.”

Marinette nods eagerly. “He makes fantastic tarts. I’m lucky enough to still get them when I visit.”

“I’m jealous,” Adrien chuckles.

Despite carrying the sack he opens the door for her. She curtseys on impulse and shuffles in. He lays the flour onto the counter and says hello to Marinette’s parents before excusing himself.

“Wait!”

Marinette catches the Prince just before he leaves. Adrien pauses at the door as the girl shyly hands him a warm pastry.

It’s a croissant. He glows when he smiles at her. “Thank you!”

Marinette bites her lip and quietly says farewell, her hand twitching in the air as he shuts the door.

.

The market square is alive come dawn. Shops and stalls are opening and nearly ready for business, and people hasten for first dibs on fresh supplies and spices. Marinette has a list in one hand and a basket in the other. Her sweet smile is typically enough to get her the best, but now she has an official signature that states she by right will receive the finest in stock. Being the daughter of the King’s head cook has perks.

Salmon, crab; check. Lemons, salt and pepper; check. There are other things to get like flour and sugar, but she’d have to have someone carry those back to the palace for her. The sacks are simply too heavy. Marinette checks the last thing on her list: almonds.

Her lips tug at the corners. The Prince had wanted them for the croissants.

It is a simple pastry but her parents were delighted he chose it. Marinette had watched how he ate the croissant, how the tips of his fingers lingered on his lips a second too long. He loved them. It was expected of her father’s baking. She remembers how keen he was to take the second croissant.

She thinks of how his eyes slipped closed, hiding those pretty jades behind long, blond lashes and summer gold fringe.

Marinette shakes her head and the heat from her cheeks.

The Prince had been exhausted and longing to eat something going by the loud growl of his stomach. Of course he’d be eager.

Marinette quickly finishes her errands and by the hour has a bit of coin left. It’s not hers to spend, but it wouldn’t hurt to window shop and pretend.

She passes through the leathers and metals stalls and weaves straight to the fabric shop. It’s quaint and innocuous, snuggled right next to the chocolatier’s shop, which saturates the air with the rich scent of cocoa. Ivy climbs the weathered stone walls. She enters through the front door like it’s her home.

Fabrics drape over every inch of the shop, covering the windows like curtains and the tables like tablecloth. She’s overwhelmed as she always is when she sees it. There are a thousand different patterns and her eyes can’t pick one to focus on.

The seamstress is tucked away in the back wearing robes as vibrant as the rest of the fabrics. Crows feet wrinkle her eyes and silver streaks her hair, but she carries herself with an air of regality. Draped over her lap is a gown that she stitches with methodic fluidness Marinette hopes one day she can match. She clears her throat and waves.

“Mrs. Césaire?”

The woman flicks her wide eyes up, startled like she had not known Marinette was there. Then a kind smile softens her face.

“Hello, Marinette. Alya is sleeping upstairs. She’ll be down in a moment.”

Marinette nods. “What is it you’re sewing?”

Mrs. Césaire holds the dress up; it’s a lace ball-gown with silver trimming at the sleeves and bodice. The fabric is egg-yolk-yellow. Marinette cannot imagine dancing with a dress like that, regardless of the color. She’d faint from the weight of it alone. Her grimace can’t be restrained.

“I know,” sighs the seamstress, “but it is what the customer has ordered. And I will make the best of it.”

“Are you flooded with orders lately?”

She slumps as if she’s been waiting weeks to complain. “Oh my dear, you have no idea. But all business is good business. I expect more last minute orders as the week goes on, especially as the festival approaches.”

“The festival, hm.”

Marinette’s hands ghost over a red swath of fabric laid over the coffee table. She’d be too busy helping with the King’s ceremony to go. There’ll be two parties happening simultaneously; one for the King and one for the servants of the castle. Everyone in the Kingdom is invited to the latter, however only the King’s guests are to attend the former. She’s gone every year for most of her life; it’s unlikely she’ll be missing out on anything.

A thud hits the roof right above Marinette, followed by a high-pitched squeal and several more frightening thuds. Suddenly her friend swoops down the staircase with crazed eyes and frayed, uncombed hair.

“Mom!” Alya yells, unaware of Marinette yet. She clutches a dress to her chest, a beautiful marigold that’s tiered like petals of a flower. There are tears pooling in her eyes. “You finished my dress?”

Her mother nods and Alya smothers her in a hug, the gown caught between their arms. Marinette laughs and waits until Alya pulls her gaze towards her friend and her eyes gleam even brighter.

“Marinette!” She yanks her childhood friend in for another hug, refusing to let go of the dress. “How have you been? How’s your job at the castle?”

“Busy,” Marinette grins. “But our pay is excellent, and our living quarters!” She sighs dreamily. “I even get my own room.”

“I can come and visit right?” Alya clasps her hands and Marinette grips them back.

“Of course!”

Their attention turns to the dress; Alya fawns over it and Marinette hops in place. If Alya will be going to the festival then it’s as good as Marinette going. She’ll get a play by play of the night once it’s over.

“You’re not going?” Alya asks when Marinette does not match her excitement. She glances worriedly at her mother.

Marinette shakes her head but her smile doesn’t dim. “I’ll be working with my parents.” Then, she leans in conspiratorially and whispers into Alya’s ear as if there are others wanting to listen. “Besides, His Highness the Prince is absolutely _dashing._ I’ve been shopping all morning to make the almond croissants he asked for.”

Alya excitedly squeezes her hands. “Well, maybe I’ll see you later in the evening, if you’re not too busy dancing with the prince.”

Marinette throws her head back and laughs. She pictures herself sweeping across the polished dance floor of the palace, pirouetting in circles within the arms of prince. But her dress is caked in flour and there are bits of egg white on her hands and a dot of powdered sugar on her nose. It’s atrocious. Her giggles tumble from her chest. “Perhaps in another life.”

Marinette dismisses herself with a warm goodbye and a promise from Alya to visit her at the castle. She fails to catch Alya whispering to her mother as she leaves the store.

.

Though Adrien is not the cause for celebration he is the main centerpiece of the party, much like a decorative vase or a portrait to be admired on the mantel. He’s been preparing for months, enduring vigorous piano lessons for the sole purpose of keeping their guests entertained– because, though they’d be loathe to admit it, Adrien is not the only one that finds these parties mundane.

The tailor suits him up, threads one final seam into his tailcoat and snips it cleanly. His sash is a rich blue, and he twists it in his fingers as he stares at himself in the full body mirror.

He looks like one of the elaborate paintings hanging in his father’s study. The loose locks of his hair are slicked back, pressed tight to his temples. His teeth have been thoroughly polished with baking soda and he can still taste mint on his tongue. The gold epaulettes strapped to his shoulders match the buttons on his torso and cuff links. He is uniform, perfect and rigid at every angle. His brows furrow. Contempt fills his eyes.

There’s a knock on the door as the tailor excuses himself. Adrien allows the knocker in, barely concealing his weariness.

A familiar face pokes its head inside and grins. Adrien’s entire visage brightens; his eyes shine and wrinkle at the corners.

“Nino!”

He hugs his friend earnestly. Nino pats him on the back.

“It’s been long my friend.”

It hasn’t really, only a month; but Nino was once Adrien’s closest friend within the castle. He remains so, but having moved out of the castle has allowed distance to grow. And yet they fall into a familiar rhythm. Adrien’s shoulders relax significantly and Nino leans against the doorframe as if he’d never been Adrien’s servant.

“You look awful!” Nino teases, crossing his arms over his chest.

Adrien snorts. “Good to see you too.”

They catch up in a matter of minutes. Adrien learns that Nino now regularly performs at private parties and pubs with his family. They travel together but their home remains in the Agreste Kingdom. Nino learns that little has changed with the Prince.

“And the King is still driving you mad with your education?”

Adrien sighs. “As always. But that isn’t so exciting to talk about. What are you doing here? Won’t you be missing out on the festival?”

Nino perks. “We were hired by the King’s court to perform for the ceremony! My family and I have made a name for ourselves as bards– even royalty is starting to recognize our music.”

“Do you know when? Will it be before or after my performance?”

“Most certainly after. We aren’t the main entertainment, but that’s just fine with us. The coin for this job is incredible.”

Adrien nods a bit sadly. If it’s after his performance, it’s unlikely that he’ll be able to watch his friend. He’ll be too immersed in politics, the drollery of the game that he despises.

Nino watches Adrien and purses his lips. “You know, the most hilarious thing happened.”

Adrien looks up. “What is it?”

“My mother spent a good deal of money suiting me up in a costume for the festival, but I won’t be able to wear it. The King has delegated us to wear specific uniforms.”

Adrien searches his features, his smile returning. “And?”

“There isn’t a man in the Kingdom that’s willing to buy it back. It’s such a waste; it’s a rather dashing suit.” Nino smirks. “Do you think we still wear the same size?”

Adrien’s eyes widen. He shakes his head and raises his hands. “No, Nino, that’s– I can’t. I’ll be busy all evening with guests and-”

“The sleeves might have to be shortened an inch or two- the pants length as well. Hm.”

“Nino-!”

Then Nino raises his hands defensively and bows his head. “Forgive me, your Highness. It was only a suggestion.” But then he winks. “But the offer stands if you change your mind.”

He pats his stunned friend on the shoulder. Adrien’s perfect tassels ruffle. “You’ll be in a mask. No one will know who you are. You can escape, just for a moment.” He begins to back away. “The choice is yours.”

On that note he leaves. The door shuts with a resonating clang that echoes in Adrien’s head minutes after.

He wonders how much of that story is true. And what did it matter if it wasn’t? His friend had done him a kindness that Adrien will unlikely be able to repay. He has so much to do tonight, so many faces to greet and smile at and shake hands with and kiss and dance and perform–

A performance that will never stop. Even after the music dies and the guests leave he will continue to perform.

Adrien grits his teeth.

The day hasn’t even begun and he’s already so, so tired.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> crosses fingers, hope everyone liked it! send a comment my way if you did, they make my day! <3
> 
> i'm ticklishivories on tumblr if you'd like to hit me up there


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok there are a lot of historical inaccuracies with this fic, starting with there being some random king on the coast of france (???) and a bizarre holy roman empire style of rule. also if this somewhat resembles 18th century rococo france then claude debussy and chopin would not have been born yet. this has been your useless information psa.

 

The festival starts chaotically for Marinette. She spends her morning hunting through booths for supplies for her parents. They have most of the baking materials but small touches are necessary, like a replacement for the whisk that’d broken and eggs– emergency eggs since the royal chickens are refusing to lay any. She’s pacing as quickly as she can through the crowd, the playing children and their parents, the stall owners and entertainers. The daytime half of the festival is for families primarily, with puppet shows and theatrical plays more about performance than plot. Her dearest childhood memories begin here. The best food is served during the day as well, and she wishes it wasn’t too early for the caramel apple booth to be open.

Marinette’s parents had woken up hours before her and they are still scrambling to prepare when she returns to the palace kitchen at dusk. Most of the dishes are arranged and organized, and her father only has one more batch of parfaits to make before the guests arrive. Marinette adorns her apron to help with the cleaning.

But her mother shoos her away. Marinette frowns. “Do you not need help?”

“There’s hours worth of cleaning left, hours that will cut into the festivities.”

Marinette gawks. “But I can help, I don’t mind!”

“We know you don’t.”

“You go on, dear.” Her father’s hands are coated in flour but it doesn’t stop him from taking his daughter’s palms between his own. “You’ve worked hard this year. There are friends you wish to see tonight, yes?”

Hesitantly, Marinette nods. Her father grins back, reaffirming his decision.

“You’ll be going to the festival tonight. You’ve earned it.”

“But…” Marinette stutters, her heart overflowing with affection, “I…I don’t have a gown, and the main event of the night is the dance.”

Her parents exchange a look.

“We, erm…” Her burly father sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “We sort of took care of that.”

Marinette blinks. “What?”

“We…remember the dress you made yourself last year?” says her mother, shifting repeatedly from one foot to the other. “The one you suddenly decided was hideous?”

She nods slowly. It was a frilly disaster, and it embarrasses her to think she was seen in public wearing it. Her heart picks up.

“We didn’t sell the scraps like we said we did,” says her father. “Rather, we…”

The kitchen door suddenly bursts open. Alya and her mother step through with beaming smiles.

“Surprise!”

Marinette jumps back so violently she knocks a copper bowl to the ground. Her friends rush inside without pausing and crowd around her like fluttering birds.

“Happy birthday, Marinette!”

“It’s not her birthday mom!”

“Oh.” Mrs. Césaire covers her mouth with her hand. “Oops. Well, here you are Marinette!”

Alya’s mother holds up a gown. Marinette hardly recognizes her old atrocity; the seamstress must have replaced the cheaper red fabric she used. The daring black and crimson sweeps the floor, with ribbons that tie across the bodice and a modest cut that stops just below the collarbone. The rich reds are astounding, undoubtedly meant for nobility– how could any of them have afforded to make this for her?

“A thank you for volunteering to help with last year’s dresses. You’ve more than paid for the fabric; I couldn’t have asked for a better assistant.” Mrs. Césaire winks. Marinette’s eyes well with tears.

“You’ve been helping us with our bakery without pay for years,” adds Marinette’s mother.

“Not to mention all the gown’s you’ve made for me for past festivals,” says Alya. “We’ve saved a lot because of that, too.”

“But, I can’t…” Marinette gazes at the gown with fervent longing. “It’s too beautiful, too much…”

“Enough. You can pay us back in cinnamon buns if you really want,” Alya smirks. Then she cups her friend’s cheeks, staring at Marinette with an adoration reserved only for their friendship. “It’s a thank you for everything you’ve done. For all of us. Accept it, Marinette.”

She places her hands over her friends, a tear finally slipping down her cheek. But her smile gleams brilliantly. “Thank you so much, everyone,” She sniffles, and Alya embraces her.

“Oh, don’t forget the most important piece!”

Mrs. Césaire hands Marinette a mask. It glitters red just like the dress but is covered in black polka dots. She raises a brow and looks up.

“Did we not mention?” Alya grins. “The festival is going to mirror the royal celebration. So of course, it will be a masquerade.”

.

Dusk dyes the horizon a deep purple. Adrien stares at it blankly from his balcony. Dark clouds encroach on the Kingdom, threatening storms that’d been brewing for days. From below guests crowd into the castle. Each wears a mask mimicking some animal. Fluttering music weaves up from the banisters, flutes that flirt with the violins and more conservative cellos. Along with the crowd sweeps in pealing laughter that’s no more real than the women’s waistlines or the men’s powdered wigs. The vibrant, clashing pastels give Adrien the impression of a soaked Monet painting.  

Thankfully when he reaches the hall the servants have already brought out the wine. Smiles appear more genuine the more he drinks. Adrien carries the glass with him like the hand of a friend.

Something turns off. Some sort of switch, some mechanism that consciously makes Adrien think. He passes through the crowd like a specter; a quick handshake and greeting is all that’s necessary. His chagrin hides under his practiced smile. The clinking of glasses and chiming laughter, the masks and the perfumes and food– he’s been bred for this. Women fuss and fawn and he bows, kisses their hands like his lips were meant to be there, as if the flirtatious glint in his eye is sincere.

Literally, he does not wear a mask. Neither will the King once he arrives, as is customary of the party’s hosts. But it’s one more thing to set Adrien on edge. This sea of strangers can see everything of him, but he only sees the piece of plastic they hide behind. He supposes it’s not so different.

The food is brought out. An entire table of croissants oozing with honey and almonds and he must restrict himself to one. It’s torture. Thankfully the wine is easier to sneak more of. Adrien is holding his third glass and his cheeks are warm when the servants return to push the couches and chairs aside. He sighs. It’s nearly time for his performance.

He wishes he had a chance to say hello to Nino, wish him luck. Adrien recalls their bizarre conversation this morning. Apparently his friend is up to something, and Adrien catches himself glancing towards the door to the servants’ quarters as if expecting his friend to pop through. In a split second he sees a flash of red and black and startles. Someone– a servant? –must have been peeking out from behind the door. In a full ballroom gown.

He’s about to investigate and makes a step towards the door when the guests start hushing each other. Adrien looks up to the golden bannisters.

Framed by the glaring light of the chandeliers is his father. The King glides down the carpeted steps steadily and deliberate, his ivory cape billowing at his waist. He dominates the crowd with the slight cock of his chin and thin grin. His steely eyes lock on Adrien and he forgets what he’s doing, and does not hesitate to join him at the top of the stairs.

Quiet settles as he arrives at the center of the staircase. Adrien stands just behind.

“Friends, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen…” He gestures broadly to every masked face in the hall. “As is custom, we a gathered this year, as we were the last, to celebrate my coronation now twenty years in the past. Relish the evening that I have labored to perfect for your entertainment.” His hand rests on Adrien’s shoulder, and Adrien naturally straightens, his chin raising but not making eye contact with the audience. “My son has a marvelous performance prepared for you all. If you so wish, eat, dance, and enjoy the music.”

They clap appropriately. Adrien can feel every man and woman’s beady eyes scrutinizing him through the slits of their masks. Refusing to look back as he was taught, he descends the stairs and approaches the pearl colored piano. It is the most familiar and comforting thing in the room. A beacon of solidarity and stability, a welcoming pair of eyes. His fingers glance over the keys like an intimate friend.

Adrien glimpses at the door. Again, he spots that red and black dress. A woman halfway out the door watches him. He cannot see her face but he knows she can see him. Goosebumps ignite a path up his spine.

He pulls his gaze away. Not a breath is taken in the hall as he seats himself. Adrien closes his eyes. His hands hover over the keys.

“We will begin the evening with Adrien’s rendition of Arabesque No.1, composed by Claude Debussy,” comes his father’s voice.

All is still. Then, he plays.

His song is a petal dropping in a glass pond. The gentlest of ripples through the room, but they grow and extend outward gracefully, maintaining its tranquility. The crowd lets out a collective sigh. Adrien leans into the piano, strokes each ephemeral note, contours every sound to possess its own individual quality. The music consumes him, bewitches his listeners, a tide of possession and collective rapture that has their eyes glazing and hearts slowing. When the song is finished and before the waves have a chance to settle, he begins his next song.

Chopin’s Fantaisie-Impromptu, op. 66. It snaps them out of their reverie. Adrien’s entire body moves with this song. He hears the crowd gasp as his fingers soar in a blur up and down the entire length of the keys. Flawlessly. Dramatic and intense and not to be danced to lest one trip or lose their breath. The dizzying flurry of notes is impossible to follow. Adrien forgets where he is. His eyes remain closed and a grin close to madness forms on his lips.

Here they can judge him. Here, he welcomes it. With music he creates freely. The piano doesn’t care whom Adrien is and will gladly make him a fool. It is his fate to choose.

He plays for an hour total with a mix of both baroque and impressionist composers. By the last song he is sweating, no different than if he were fencing for an hour. He holds off before playing his next piece to address the audience, breathing harshly, reveling in his exertion and triumph. He spares a glance at his father who sits at the center of a harem of old men and ambassadors with candy-colored rings on their fat fingers. They watch, neither smiling nor frowning. Many of the guests have gone to sample the hors d'oeuvres or dance.

Adrien clears his throat. “Please enjoy my final piece,” he announces. “Chopin’s Valse Brilliante in E flat major, Op. 18. I encourage you all to dance along as I play. Although I will no longer be playing afterwards I hope that some of you may save a dance for me. Now please, relax and have a wonderful rest of your evening.”

They applaud enthusiastically, and then he plays.

Adrien performs brilliantly.

It’s a marvelous way to end his night. He hadn’t made a single mistake, and he knows this will pay off later with his father. Maybe he can excuse himself early, feign exhaustion and head to bed before he is forced to dance.

He marches towards his father, expression set, but as he does a stout noble sitting to the King’s left stands. Adrien pauses, tensing to greet another stranger.

“His Royal Highness Prince Agreste,” he announces, ambling towards Adrien. The empty wine glass nearly slips from his hand. “You are doing well, I presume?”

Adrien glances back at his father briefly, who is preoccupied with pouring sugar into his tea. The nobleman waits expectantly for his response.

“I am well, Sir…” Adrien extends his hand.

“André Bourgeois, Baron of Chateau du Bourgeois.” He grasps Adrien’s hand and bows curtly. The man has pinpoints for eyes that twinkle through his mask like the blue in Adrien’s lapels. His smile is clean and sharp. “I understand that you are of age.”

Adrien nods with his own pleasant smile. “For several months now, yes.”

“Has your father given you sovereignty over any territories yet? I’m sure your education is far along enough to handle such procedures. Ah…” The man turns to the King. “Or will he be joining the military? I’m sure you have many plans for this young boy.”

The King agrees leisurely. “Yes, we have plans.” His stony eyes look to Adrien. Adrien stiffens. “The Prince will be inheriting a small portion of land off the coast to govern...once he is ready.”

Adrien frowns. What does 'ready' mean?

“I beg your pardon?”

A woman steps forward, one that Adrien does not recognize; she holds her hands out at her sides as if for balance, but they grant her an air of delicate superiority that doubles as both haughty and intimidating. Her mask is an enormous, violet butterfly that expands nearly the width of her shoulders. It is a dark blotch in the pastel sea. Adrien wonders how he had not noticed her before.

She cuts to the center of the gathering of men. Immediately Bourgeois shuffles back. Her target is clear: Adrien does his best not to step back and holds eye contact with her intense brown stare.

She smiles primly. “Did his Majesty just say his Royal Highness would be receiving land?” Though her words address the King she does not stray her gaze away from the Prince.

Adrien restricts the urge for his brow to twitch. He smiles back. “Yes, my Lady.”

“And that particular land would be off the coast. The land in which no one occupies?”

A cold chill runs like a finger down his spine. He can see where this is going. “Yes, my Lady.”

At this she chuckles, throwing her head back and covering her mouth with a petite, gloved hand. Several heads turn. “Aren’t you an intelligent one? It’s a good thing you’re being given land that no one lives in, or it might very well go up in flames! Is all you can say yes?”

As a matter of fact, it _was_ all Adrien could say. He’s been trained to comment, not debate. To agree, not challenge. He cannot form a single retort, and rather than answer with another ‘yes’, Adrien purses his lips and stands perfectly still. The entire hall waits for his response, but Adrien says nothing.

He does not hear the small gasp of the crowd over the thundering pound of his heart.

The King stands. With a bored nod towards the guards, who had during the entirety of the party stood like toy soldiers at the archways, he orders them to seize her. The woman does not cease her tittering laughter and it bounces around the inside of Adrien’s head like deafening sirens.

“A figurehead Prince and his puppeteer father!” she guffaws, swept away by three skulking men towards the double doors. “He will never properly own sovereignty of any land! A worthless, glittering plaque is all he’ll ever be! Scum! Filth! Just like his-”

The doors shut with a resonating bang. Murmurs erupt through the audience.

King Agreste apologizes to the Baron, then moves towards the grand staircase. All eyes turn to him, including Adrien’s.

The Prince silently pleads for his father to meet his eyes.

“I sincerely apologize to you all for that absurd debacle. As it comes, I have an announcement for you all.”

His father’s smile brims with pride. It takes Adrien aback, and he feels his blood chill under his skin. The strange, dramatic spell cast over the room is broken. Adrien is beckoned to his side. Head bowed, he obeys.

“My son has grown into a refined young man. He is learned in the arts of language and music, and is skilled in mathematics and the study of physics. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

He regards the applause with a nod and goes on.

“As he is of age, but still naïve in worldly matters, as our vocal guest has so generously pointed out,” and the crowd laughs along a bit nervously, “I have come to a decision.”

The King glances at his son and Adrien’s eyes widen a fraction.

“I will be sending him overseas to expand on his studies and broaden his worldview. He will be away for two years, enlightening himself in the logistics of politics and people. It will be a marvelous opportunity for both him and the Kingdom. By two years time, he will inherit the land he was promised, and my throne, and I will retire my crown.”

The audience applauds again, but now with cheers and hearty congratulations. They swell around Adrien to grasp his hand, clap him on the back, and give praise and adulation.

His heart sinks into his stomach. Adrien stumbles back. “Wait, I…”

His chill has turned into a cold sweat. Adrien’s eyes dart around the room but he is overwhelmed by the decorations, the colors, the faceless people that crowd him in at every corner. His vision slants. He can’t see an escape.

Adrien barely gets out an ‘excuse me’ before he shoves himself through. He hears at least one woman gasp and a scandalous shout.

He doesn’t care.

He chooses to run to the servants’ quarters. He doesn’t know why, but he made the right decision. Music plays as the people settle. It’s Nino and his family playing, and the sound comforts him inside his haven.

His stomach roils and churns like the storm clouds outside. Thunder rumbles against the roof. Adrien hugs his arms around his chest.

There isn’t a sufficient reason he’s acting like this, no excuse other than his own weakness; but no matter how hard he tries he cannot shake the tremor in his hands. His father’s actions are expected. He should have anticipated this.

But the woman was right. He is ignorant. He is only a title and a shell and knows nothing of the walls outside his room– let alone how to be a King. Adrien doesn’t want to go. Eighteen years and he’s hardly even visited the Kingdom’s village. The servants, his friends, they’re here. They anchor him to earth more than the marble floors ever could. He’d be on his own. He’s never been allowed anywhere without an escort.

And in two years he would become King. Adrien thought he had more time. But two years is a small bridge to cross.

He doesn’t want it. He never wanted it.

Adrien leans against the door and claws his fingers through his hair.

“Your Highness…?”

He hardly registers the knock on the door. 

“Your Highness, if I may come in.”

Adrien swallows, grunts in response, and moves aside to let the person in.

It’s his stewardess Nathalie. He does not look up. He watches her slippers poke out from her dress as she steps in front of him. 

“You have behaved very inappropriately.”

Adrien nods.

“Thankfully the King has explained that you were very exhausted after your performance. The story was bought.”

He nods. Nathalie hesitates, then proceeds.

“As such...I see it fitting to give you my condolences. You did not deserve to receive such news in this public place. I do not know what your father is doing.” She creases her lips. “And I would also like to say that if you wish for a reprieve, then you best follow me.”

Finally, Adrien pulls his gaze up. She is fidgeting oddly.

Without a word Adrien stands and follows her. His stewardess is stiff, but she has always been a rigid person. He cannot read her actions as she leads him through the corridor and, to his surprise, Nino’s old bedroom. Briefly he wonders whom it belongs to now. She opens the door for him. 

Draped upon the bed is a peasant suit. It’s blacker than night and decorated like garland with leather belts. A tricorne hat, worn with age, sits comfortably under the arm, and a mask with angular emerald stitching around the eyes peers up at Adrien like a leering cat. It’s the only splash of color on the entire outfit; no silver, gold, or trinkets to express nobility.

“Is this…” Adrien breathlessly picks up the mask. “Is this the suit Nino was talking about?”

“Er, yes,” says Nathalie. “We…he had it made especially for you.”

“But I thought it was his?”

She splutters. “I-I mean, yes, it was…er…”

Adrien laughs, too loud for present company and for the low ceiling room but he doesn’t care. His eyes gleam as he turns to his stewardess and smiles.

“Thank you, Nathalie.” He makes a mental note to thank Nino a million times later as well.

Her mouth pulls at one corner. “You’re welcome, Your Highness.”

He’s shoving off his clothes before she has a chance to fully left the room. He was suffocating in them, but soon they’re gone and kicked to the floor as carelessly as he can manage. His hair sticks out like broken branches and somehow he still shivers, like he can’t pull the suit on fast enough and leave.

He has no idea where to go.

For a moment he thinks about waiting for Nino. But he doesn’t want to be anywhere near the castle. It’s too much right now. Too much, his mind flashing briefly to two years later, Adrien wearing his father’s bejeweled crown and feathered, velvet cloak as he sits on the throne, delegating something to someone that he neither knows nor cares about. Then there is a far worse image, an angry mob screaming his name and burning through his castle, demanding his head for leading the Kingdom to ruin. 

He shudders and breathes in. The door creaks as it opens. No light comes through.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this fic will have more than one update left. i'm not sure how many??? but we'll see.


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